The Romulus Complex
Mira Giovanni sashayed through the foyer, bathrobe stuck to her ribs, moonlight on her hands, waiting patiently to hear her cousins die.
They'd been idiots to come here—just come running!—because she'd asked them to. Cousin Mira, a new superior, had a new request, she said. She dressed up her agenda like a family visit. And she was sure they would take one whiff of the cheese in this trap and never show.
But here they were. As though they would never have thought of being anywhere else.
Oh, there was more to it than good faith and poor danger sense, of course. Overtures had been made. Appeals and friendly phone calls padded these relationships three months in advance. Then, just evenings ago, she'd concocted some flimsy promises about bringing both men into the inner circle. 'Business associates,' had been the term, and its mediocrity made her snort between blunted, painful, uncompromising fangs.
Mira may have been young, but she'd never needed a cousin's help before.
Why now? might've crossed a smarter boy's mind.
She had planned a sometimes elegant, sometimes violent advancement through La Famiglia long before her first spit of blood beneath that sallow California moon. But it's on nights like this that Mira Luciana remembers it—that taste, that missed heartbeat, how it all meant the world. She remembered the weather: clear, sixty-two degrees, unseasonably cool for a late August night. She remembered the hand stuck in her hair, making her kneel beyond the lime trees in the backyard grove; remembered the dew, feeling like iodine where it seared into her skinned knees, wetness from the baby grass, through the stockings she wore. It was foul down her pipes like a kind of metal.
Uncle and two of her Aunts killed Mira. Ita and Severene—she remembered ivory pumps, a gold chain wrist watch, tonka bean cologne on a tulip pink suit. Severene, forty-eight at the time of death, styled up in a short blonde bouffant, the hand in her hair. Ita, thirty-eight, a foot of limp jet, an Italian cream dress, holding Mira's head in her hands after the Kiss. But it wasn't a kiss. They gave her a half-bottle of morphine and slit her throat. She remembered the cold burn, distant and annoying through a haze of drugs, like a torn cuticle across her jugular, as though it was happening a hundred miles away. Ita wiped the excess away with a house table napkin. Mira remembered the black ivy trefoil stitched on. She wiped away blood with one corner, and then she wiped spittle from her niece's mouth with another, Mira's jaws unhinged by an inch, wheezing out quietly, one long violin of a noise.
Mira, twenty-eight, pearls in her hair, a string broken off the bulge in a pretty long neck.
They did it just yards away from the kitchens in the immaculate, lawnmowered backyard. Sitting at a dish counter a few minutes earlier, her reflection looking back in stainless steel pots, she had a rudimentary idea of what was about to happen.
There had been no pretense at all. It happened after a seasonal party in a seasonless state. It was a red grape wine and wild pig sauce and a Cornish game hen. It was kisses and handshakes and too-long, too-close hugs. And as they all were leaving, a doorman with no name and a head like a brick over his scarlet tie said, lowly: Cousin Mira, please follow me. She followed him. She pushed into the same portholed door her aunts would tip-toe through and was confused to be there, empty and alone in a servant's space—but confused only as long as it took Ita to fling a champagne glass in the staff sink and smile back at her. When the syringe came out of Severene's overlarge purse, buckles clacking, Mira willingly rolled up her sleeve. It wasn't the first time. It wasn't the first time a Giovanni made a choice, or the first time a twinge in her elbow made deadness melt away. Exhale, she told herself; exhale, Mira.
They let her sit on the dose for a while. Then, when she began slumping forward, the aunts picked her up, one limp arm for each. And they walked her, digging fingernails, hissing stand up; go along; move, Mira. The whoosh of citrus air from the lemon trees and cool grass under her feet, slipping from their heels. She thought Bruno's swollen hand was holding her hipbone from behind, but it was a memory; all of it became memories, eventually. She flinched at fourteen when he threw out her white leggings, striped this horrible, indescribable kind of pink; she watched her bank account at eighteen fill up with gifts and family boons like a real estate hawk; and that contrite girl, grown-up now, would not have felt so affectionate if he had been there. She wouldn't have felt like a little tugboat, being supported by warships. Her Aunts half-carried her the whole way. Uncle was standing outside with a machete.
Severene said the dirt would soak up the mess. So they sat her down right there, in the waning outdoor lights, and then Bruno's knuckles were tapping her flagging chin, so she kissed all his rings. It was ritual habit. They did whatever it was they did to her out in the clearing of spotless lawn and clean air. Mira shouldn't have been surprised by that.
Give it a decade or two, and the new ones—the little cousins—would begin calling her Aunt Mira. But this white lace girl did not want to be an Aunt, you see; she did not want the preface of love, bow-tied in a title; she wanted the name she was born with.
Mira is Mira. That is the way it's always going to be.
Another Aunt should have beaten her to this scheme. It perplexed her that none of them had—at least, none of them tried, not since she was old enough to remember all of her family. Perhaps one or two had taken a stab at Bruno's lungs and failed before, blotted off the family registers, scratched off the plaques. It gave Mira some comfort to think so—that she was following in the footsteps of another Giovanni woman, passing the point where their tracks suddenly stopped, which meant two things. The first: They all shared a legacy of cells that told the best-children to eat the others. The second: Mira was better than that last Giovanni woman had been.
All of Mira's Aunts were competent. Competent is not the same thing as clever, and it does not necessarily mean you are hungry enough to take risks. Severene was afraid to lose her money; she felt content to sit on huge shares and in fast cars. Ita was stupid. Wonderfully educated, but stupid. Mira preferred the latter, personally, though liking someone never changed the truth about them, and only dumb mice don't use the truth.
Fortunately, she wasn't worried about eliminating either of them. Those two would serve her. They would kiss her rings and fall in line. The Aunts out-of-town—toward the north and the east—wouldn't like it, but they weren't as shrewd as Mira, and they weren't here.
Winning a play in this family wasn't as difficult as the men made it out to be. It just required a little courage—moxie, jewels, guts, whatever. Whatever misogynistic garbage the older cousins were talking about when they'd stand around and watch each other suck cigars, patting backs, wondering who would eviscerate whom. Neutered old fucks and their sycophants. Whatever it was, Mira had more. Mira can make more happen.
Move, Mira, walk.
She'd quietly assembled Old Money patience into a takeover bid so white-collar cruel it appealed even to a hated Camarilla Prince. A powerful ally—especially a politician—is your ticket sometimes, Mira'd learned. Sebastian LaCroix recognized the budding Giovanni's ambition, appreciated her drive, was flattered she'd approached him with an olive branch—and so he decided to throw-in. They were both usurpers of another don. They didn't bother wasting time with tradition or sentimentality. They were modern people with modern methods and modern minds.
This is how it goes in the West, and with the undead, and in the Family. On one day it is kisses on an old uncle's cheek. One day it is straps on a zebra print thong. On the next day it is valium and silencers and those long, queasy, inescapably Giovanni hugs come with knives.
Mira wasn't a fool. She knows better than to trust a Ventrue. There was ferocity under their neighbor's measured speech and frightening handshakes. He didn't expect a youngling already whetted on the ruthless edge of Jyhad to swear her fealty to him. But the brother-eating Giovanni interested this Prince. LaCroix was a bit notorious for his campaign to seize-and-destroy vampire artifacts—and if the Family is good for one thing, it's digging up what is very, very old.
She'd prepared, as a goodwill gift, what Mira realized would pique LaCroix's interests. She'd attended advantage auctions, listened for secrets, bought information. Buying a Rossellini archeological team further demonstrated her ability to a blue-blooded politician; taking charge of the excavation efforts proved even more exemplary; enlisting the Nagaraja's counsel was disgusting, frankly, but it was all part of the game. Pisha had pointed her right to Turkey, and then, as an act of predictable kismet, pointed Sebastian LaCroix right to her.
They had met face-to-face only through videoconference. But it was obvious Mr. LaCroix approved of her initiative, and also obvious he suspected she'd conspire to dethrone him whenever the opportunity arose. Let him suspect that; seventy percent of the time, he'd be right. But Mira isn't enough of a man or enough of a stronza to let that happen. She knows her limitations. She has a talent for smiling wide and being quiet when it stings.
For now, though, she had the ball in her court, and Prince Los Angeles was all too happy to sponsor her.
One ancient sarcophagus in return for two dead supplanters, a rewritten treaty, and an exclusive position at the local magistrate's side. It seemed too sweet a deal, but the night was here. Any minute now, a Camarilla assassin would infiltrate their estate and wipe two irksome problems from her life. Mira supposed she should feel at least a little guilty, having played house with Chris since kindergarten and attended every one of Adam's graduations from eighth grade through MBA. But the tender sore of their deaths had rinsed right off in the shower. Instead of grieving for what had to happen, she'd stepped out of the tub, wrapped every short brown bristle of hair in a soft blue towel and stood in the steam for a while. She rubbed a random oil into her face. And, smelling of cloves, this once-little-girl-in-daisies-and-white found herself strolling happily down the guest hallway, naked feet leaving damp toe-spots upon impeccable marble. She walked.
'It's not as if either one of those boys would pass over a chance to do the same. Lucky for me. My competition is rocks. Too bad, so sad.' Mira almost sang it. She had felt, plinking inside of her, a tune.
"Competition" is a truer and easier word than "family." Any minute now, and this bough of the dynasty would be as good as hers.
What would it look like, Mira wondered, winding around potted palms and clean corridors, scent on her neck, mineral stuck on her heels? She guessed Chris was curled up in a twist of quilts, perpetually cold. He'd always been a light sleeper—used to kick the crap out of her when they'd spend November weekends up in Chicago with Great Aunt mother coddled the hell out of him; he'd get homesick. He'd wander around in socks with tiny plastic treads. He'd eat all the chocolate Pop-Tarts from the pantry before his cousin woke up at noon. Chris, Christopher, Mr. Avellone, not-a-Giovanni. The name she chose to stamp on him did not make this any less wrong. Still, he'd never see this coming; he wouldn't guess a fratricide; not from her. It was regrettable, but a not-Giovanni is a waste of bloodline they cannot afford. Hopefully LaCroix's agent was fast enough with a sword not to hurt him too badly. The mental image of a cyanotic face strangled in bedclothes, tongue swollen in his mouth, ice-cube toes, was not one she relished. It was not one she wanted to close her eyes in a hot bathroom mirror and see for the rest of her life.
Adam, on the other hand, crashed like brick bags—limbs haphazard, wreck of silk sheets, clogged sinuses. He snorted and puffed like a sow in his sleep. Waltzing in and sticking a knife in him would be child's play. She could probably have done it herself. It was embarrassing to hire company hitmen for such a pathetic task, but prudence was Mira's first bedfellow now; she'd already be marked as a prime suspect; they were all too similar in status and age. Which was sort of a shame, as there might've been some karmatic enjoyment in dipping one finger through that dull stone's brains. He always talked to her like she was a fucking cabbage—a piece of scenery with a vagina. Chauvinist prick. It was cheap dislike, though; it was not worth peeking in on his corpse. Better relax, enjoy this pristine tile beneath her soles, and let another vampire smear red fingerprints across Uncle Bruno's walls.
Uncle Bruno—black Brioni, never pinstripes, feathered kerchief, Cypress cologne. He'd have New York strip steak brought to him alone on a plate at dinners. The juice would pool red in the saucer and his fork would sit upside-down on the rim, unused.
There had been a long braid at her back when Mira was a girl. It was easy to wrap around a fist, not that she'd ever fought back then; Giovanni are bred into patience, to tradition. Afterwards, he'd have her strip off and throw her A-lines away; they'd be replaced by small blouses and Catholic skirts, sheer stockings, polished little-feet shoes. She didn't know what happened to all of those dresses. Someone always came to take the garbage away. Someone would come with new clothes—perhaps that was Aunt Ita, too, because Severene would never take part in that, no way; she'd look the other way; she'd know about it but pretend not to, twist up the volume on her Macy Gray CD and take her earrings out and chill—but they'd forget to bring Mira new underthings. These are the missing pieces Giovanni fathers make sure not to notice, and questions Giovanni mothers do not ask. One long braid for Mira the Girl, frayed at the fishtail, garden daffodils stuck in the loops. Three summers ago, after the diagnosis, Mira the Woman had taken a pair of bush shears, and clipped it all off at her ears.
There's nothing happy in a Giovanni bite. So the Giovanni must be practical people, and own up to their monsterhood. Mira didn't know why he'd wanted her then. She can't imagine what a little girl does to make a man think food. But they'd groomed her, this Uncle and these Aunts. They hadn't meant to at first, but they did—they'd trained this doll of Bruno's a little too well for the possibility—made her take her pleasures a little too pointy and a little too sharp. She was full of virus that couldn't kill her. She knew how to move.
Uncle Bruno pooling red on a white floor would be the sweetest prize Mira Luciana could ever win.
Once the immediate competitors were removed, LaCroix delivered her cushy advisory board seat, and Mira screwed this family's head on straight, old Bruno would be the next silver urn on their fireplace mantle. With that wrinkled badger with his lemonrind race out of the way, nothing would stumble her victory slope to taking this house from the House. The Prince had secured their shared future more than he knew. Things would be very different around here once she was calling the shots and rubbing elbows with Primogen. No more adolescent chess matches for advancement; no more frivolous expenditures on mutiny galas disguised as reunions; no more draining resources chasing pet ghost hobbies. No more being touched. Not by Giovanni teeth, and not by him.
Mira had always been beautiful. Inappropriately beautiful, for her age. She looked eighteen when she was fifteen and twenty-nine when she was twenty. It was a mature beauty, one that made her youngness more apparent in the odd way that beauty sat upon her. So they hadn't realized—what they were doing, who they were making—and they hadn't prepared for her. But what they know or don't know has no bearing upon her. Mira Luciana has been this monster since she was thirteen years old.
There wasn't much farther to walk now. She put one foot after its mate, keeping a leisurely pace, all this energy making her want to sprint. She didn't. Instead, in due time, she rounded the last corner and let herself meander into a snug first-floor antechamber Mira knew would be there. It was a hardwood, icy room with black leather furniture and windows drowning in eggshell curtains; one dusty, neglected fireplace sat beneath an iron cage. There is something tropical about it all, about this house: exotic timber; washed pastels; freshness that seduces you stupid and silent, content to puff away your money and rest. Uncle used this study to smoke or to show off for donnish della Passaglias. Everything smelled like Cuban tobacco—embers, red ink, uncut pineapples in a bowl. She didn't care for that lying medley of scents. But, because it was unlocked, there were sure to be cameras trained every-which-way, and Mira very much cared about that.
A short read—that's her alibi, so easy it felt like a steal. She'd just for a quiet sitting up here in the masculine books and the sugary breeze. She scooted a vase of blue iris off a glass end table and made room for herself. And then it took only a moment, wildly distracted, veins pulsing in her jowl, to thumb through the intimidating bookshelves. Mira blindly pulled Gide and settled down into one vainglorious recliner. There was wax from the wood in every pore. Her elbows sank into plush, shoulders shuffling the upholstery, pride nastily hoping to leave water stains. Her tourniqueted scalp leant back, perfectly at ease. Stray tendrils leaked snakelike down a muscular neck. Bare heels bounced contentedly between ash trays on the coffee table. Silver candlesticks, Venetian chandelier, imported furniture, the perpetual reek of mint to cover embalming. They would all be short-lived. Things would change. Things would never be the same in the California Family.
Mira had just rounded page eighteen when one crisp chirp buzzed in the pocket of her robe.
"Ms. Giovanni," he said—male voice, unmistakable pomp, English the quality of hard crystal.. It was an outrageously simple report. "I have just spoken to my associates. It is done."
"Thank you," she replied. Two words, equally plain—a patter of success that swept through her stagnant heart.
"Yes. We'll speak again very soon."
She listened for the quiet click, flipped her telephone closed, and tucked it dispassionately back into Downy fluff. Mira's body was still. The Immoralist swirled into a meaningless slab. Water trickled droplet-by-droplet down her spine. For six long seconds—before smarter fingers made the pages turn—Mira Giovanni looked at nothing. She sat still.